Part 1
While my mother served him a second helping of turkey, his words hung in the air as my brother Brandon smirked into his wine glass. Dad continued, gesturing with his fork.
“33 years old, still renting some apartment in Seattle, doing what? Playing with computers.”
The extended family, aunts, uncles, cousins, shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but no one defended me. They never did.
I took a slow sip of water, set down the glass precisely, and watched condensation pool around its base on my mother’s expensive tablecloth. My phone vibrated for the seventh time in my blazer pocket. I ignored it. The notifications could wait. They’d been waiting for months anyway.
“I manage,” I said simply, cutting into my dry turkey breast.
My mother had never learned to cook it properly, always leaving it in too long because Dad liked his well done.
“Managing isn’t thriving,” my father declared, warming to his topic the way he always did when he had an audience. “Your brother here just closed a major deal at Redstone. Saved the company half a million in operating costs.”
Brandon straightened in his chair, preening like a peacock. At 35, he still lived for Dad’s approval. Still worked at the same manufacturing company where our father had spent three decades climbing to VP of operations.
“That’s real achievement, Maya. Not whatever it is you do with that tech support job.”
I smiled. I actually smiled, because tech support was precisely what they believed I did. Some nebulous IT help desk position that barely paid my bills. I’d let them believe it for years. Let them assume the worst every time I dodged questions about my work.
“Technology changes fast,” I said mildly. “Nothing’s ever really stable in my field.”
“Exactly,” Dad pounced, as if I’d proven his point. “Brandon has security, benefits, a pension plan. Redstone Manufacturing has been solid for 60 years. Meanwhile, you’re working for some startup that could disappear tomorrow. Probably making 30,000 a year if you’re lucky.”
He shook his head with exaggerated pity.
“I told you to study accounting, practical, stable. But no, you had to chase this computer nonsense.”
My Aunt Carol, Dad’s sister, cleared her throat awkwardly.
“Richard, maybe—”
“I’m just being honest,” he interrupted, raising his hands. “Someone needs to give her a reality check. She’s 33, Carol. Still single. No assets, no real career. At her age, I already owned this house.”
He gestured around the four-bedroom colonial in Belleview that he never let anyone forget he’d bought in 1993.
My phone vibrated again. Three sharp pulses. The pattern I recognized. My assistant Sarah, marking something urgent, probably the timeline moving up.
I reached for my wine, noticed my hand was perfectly steady, and felt a cold satisfaction settle in my chest. Brandon was watching me with that familiar mix of pity and superiority.
“It’s not too late, Maya,” he offered magnanimously. “I could talk to Dad. Maybe get you an interview in our admin department. It’s not glamorous, but it’s steady work.”
“That’s thoughtful,” I replied, my voice honey-sweet. “How is Redstone doing, actually? I read something about manufacturing sector struggles.”
Dad waved dismissively.
“Media nonsense. Redstone’s rock solid. We’ve weathered every storm for decades. Not like these tech bubbles that pop every few years.”
He pointed his fork at me.
“That’s the difference between real business and whatever fantasy world you’re living in.”
I nodded slowly, setting down my wine.
“Fantasy,” I repeated softly.
My phone vibrated again. This time I pulled it out, glanced at the screen. The message from Sarah was brief.
Deal closing ahead of schedule. Board meeting moved to Monday. Press release draft attached. Congratulations, boss.
I looked up at my father, at his smug certainty, at Brandon’s pitying expression, at my mother’s silent complicity in this yearly ritual of humiliation.
15 years. 15 years since I’d walked out of this house at 18 with nothing but a scholarship to Stanford and a promise to myself that I’d never need their approval again.
“Dad,” I said quietly, sliding my phone back into my pocket. “Would you excuse me? I need to make a call. Work thing.”
He snorted.
“See, can’t even enjoy Thanksgiving without some tech emergency. That’s no way to live, Maya.”
I stood, smoothed my blazer, and smiled again.
“You’re absolutely right,” I agreed. “It’s no way to live at all.”
As I walked toward the hallway, I heard Brandon mutter, “Probably getting fired,” followed by my father’s bark of laughter.